


The last night

by Dominatrix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Finally, Humor, OTP forever, Romance, They are having dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:11:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 12,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dominatrix/pseuds/Dominatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if this was the last night on earth?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red Nails

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you for the amazing Rosemary-Dandelion for her Beta work ♥

He shouldn’t have come at all. No, he really shouldn’t. But Lestrade had dragged him out of his flat with a tipsy Donovan and a dumb grinning Anderson in such a fast way that Sherlock had only noticed in the cab what was really happening to him. If the DI and his atrociously incompetent helpers had not all been slightly drunk they would have never stopped in Baker Street. It was an absurd, if not rarely idiotic idea to take Sherlock to such an event.

John wasn’t even there to hold on to him. He had said goodbye to Sherlock hastily before taking the first train to his sister’s house. Relapse. Obviously a harsh one. Not that Sherlock had not foreseen it. But John had not wanted to listen. He generally wanted to hear only little of what Sherlock had to say. That was why the Consulting Detective was alone in their flat right before Christmas. It wasn’t new to him, and he didn’t mind anyway – in the time around the holidays his flatmate tended to get all too nostalgic and dramatic…Not to speak of his jumpers . The cases got more and more boring, more thoughtless.

No proper serial killer that cared for his reputation wanted his masterpiece to be meddled with these terribly easy crimes for passion committed by neglected housewives or disappointed family members. For some reason the enthusiastically aspired idyll of Christmas that had settled in to the minds of the people – and the bitter disappointment when they recognized that this illusion was never to reach - brought up even deeper and darker abysses. No, Christmas really wasn’t Sherlock’s favourite time of the year.

He should just go. Call him a cab. If Lestrade should remember something about tonight tomorrow – which was highly improbable – he would limit himself on the things that caused even more headache than the aftermath of his alcohol consume. Right now one of his first memories would be the one of the red-haired, doubtlessly hyped up woman with whom he was dancing real close and doing…other things.

Sherlock didn’t even want to imagine what Anderson and Donovan were doing right now.

Nobody would notice if he just left. And even if they did. What would it change? It would just prove that he wasn’t one of them. Which was obvious anyway. So it wouldn’t bring social disadvantages. Not that he cared only the slightest what the members of the Yard thought of him.

Sherlock was lost so deep in his thoughts that he flinched noticeable as he felt something at his back. A touch, too playful to be taken fully serious, but also too determined and vigorous to appear as an accident. Five lines, drawn by finger nails – this was completely obvious when you thought about intensity and general way of touch – that traced gently over the fabric of his shirt, from his trouser waistband up to his shoulder blades, always tracing the contours of his spine. Suddenly the hand disappeared again, but Sherlock knew that the person that had touched him was still standing behind him.

As Sergeant Sally Donovan – who didn’t have fingernails that enabled a touch of this kind – was not nearly drunk enough to declare herself guilty of such an assault there was only one left. It could just be one very special person. One single person in England would dare to touch him like this. Although it was impossible. But when he eliminated all logical solutions of this problem the illogical, seeming impossible solution must be the right one.

Sherlock did not even have to look over his shoulder; he knew that the finger nails that had scratched across the fabric were painted in an intense red, as they had always been. A little smile twitched in the corners of his mouth.


	2. An old acquaintance

„Mr. Sherlock Holmes.“

Without turning around, without a single look at the woman that stood slanting – and very close – behind him, he answered.

“Miss Adler, I presume.”

“Good evening. I wouldn’t have expected you here.“

„I know,“ he said coldly and matter-of-factly while he turned around. It really was Irene Adler, the dark-haired Dominatrix – probably Ex-Dominatrix, as it would be a little too conspicuous for a presumed dead woman to do this job.

“How do you know that?” Sherlock sighed and one of his eyebrows was lifted a little. Was there nobody he could talk with in a decent way?

“First: You know my habits, my character. I don’t usually frequent such kind of…festivities. Second: If you had known that I was coming you would have put on something less striking.” He let his view wander shortly about the spectacular, pale blue dress the fabric of which was infolded with delicate, shining white lace. Not many could show power and dominance in such an innocent colour at all. Irene Adler could. Sherlock knew that she didn’t do it on purpose. It was a part of her personality

„You know exactly that such trivialities don’t influence me.”

“And why should I arrange my wardrobe to what you think?” Sherlock showed her a short, almost condescended smile before he went on talking.

“Do I really have to remind you of your smart phone’s password or would it be enough, if I…” he reached out for her hand and stroked across her knuckles almost casually, “just took your pulse right now?”

“Sherlock, this is some time ago now.” Of course he didn’t fail to recognize that she was terribly busy with checking her perfect looking updo hairstyle with both hands so she had a declared weak excuse to pull her hand out of his careful grip.

“But you approached me nonetheless. Why? Our last meetings weren’t really satisfying, for neither of us. You’re not inclined to be nostalgic, either. So what can it be then?”

He saw her swallowing and was glad that she gave him a moment to think by doing this. Frantically, he started to push his thoughts in the right direction, but he lost orientation one after the other time. When he opened his mouth to say something he wasn’t able to get out a single word. The view of her ice-blue eyes seemed to look right inside of him, but this time there wasn’t any superiority in her eyes. Not this time. For some kind of reason it confused him even more.

She whispered something; he could see her lips move, but he didn’t understand a single word. It was impossible to hear her in a room with deafening rackets and humming basses. With a look and a small movement of his hand he beckoned her to follow him. He had memorized all possible emergency doors and exits when he had gotten in. Bad experiences and wise foresight.

When Irene grabbed his arm so as not to lose him in the crowd he had to restrain to keep his pulse under control. An utterly disturbing and ineffective result to a stimulus of his surroundings. He had had experience with this only a few times until now. Curiously, Irene Adler seemed to be involved with it every time. It was really odd. And although Sherlock Holmes’ intellect was one of the biggest in whole of England he was incapable of drawing a concrete deduction out of this.

It was raining when they were pushing past the last few people to get outside. Together with some scattered smokers who lit cigarettes with fingers that were shaking due to the cold weather to shoo the smoke out in the air like small grey ghosts only seconds after they had stopped under the glass refuge.

“Did you quit?” Irene asked with a look that showed complete disbelief.

“I’m trying.”

„How many patches?“

„Right now? Two.“

„You’re getting better.“

„You’re not so bad,“ he replied with a lifted eyebrow. Irene grinned as she recognized the sentence that she had said to him in Baker Street. It seemed to be very long ago, but only a few months had passed. The time without him had seemed endless.

 


	3. Just misbehaving

„Dreadful weather“ Sherlock said with a short glance. “It should be snowing right now.”

Even he knew enough about interpersonal relationships to know that talks about the weather usually meant the death blow for every encounter - no matter of which kind it was. The example of John and his last girlfriend – the one with the rather incisive nose – was very graphic. They spoke about the weather and all of a sudden John slept every night in Baker Street again.

Yes, Sherlock was completely aware that he probably bored Irene with his choice of topic, but he wasn’t capable of something else, which highly frustrated him. Somebody with his intellect should be capable of more than just those trivial remarks.

“And what‘s an apocalypse without snow?” Irene replied. She had let go of his arm in the meantime. Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking that it disturbed him a little. What was wrong with him today? Would he really join the feeling of ridiculous hysteria that seemed to nest in everybody here? No, he probably just needed some kind of distraction. Distraction always helped. With his usual attention he looked around and recognized different types of people.

First. The conspiracy theorists. Mostly armed with huge, but useless knowledge about the supposed chiffre in the Maya calendar. The announcement for the end of the world. Several speculations about the possible consequences resulted from this: Earthquakes, torrential downpours, tornados, volcanic eruptions, comet impacts, a supernova, and gamma lightning. Eventually the extinction of all life on earth.

Of course this was complete and utter humbug. The theorists were capable of spoiling the mood on the party, in the end they always tried to convince everybody that they all were going to die in a few hours.

This brought Sherlock to the second grouping of people: Mostly rather young people, predominantly in their early to late twenties, in extreme cases and in cases of personal self-disappointment also older. Marked themselves through loud noises. Sherlock thought noises were important, but everything these people said under strong influence of alcohol and drugs (mainly marihuana and/or ecstasy, but they weren’t really picky, a fast and strong effect was everything that mattered to them) was completely senseless and absolutely negligible. They were doubtlessly also convinced that the world would collapse, but not as strong as the conspiracy theorists.

Their probably most important feature was the self-destructive way to throw themselves towards every breathing opposite, as they were only to live for a short time. Most of them, however, didn’t use the time in a useful way or with someone special. No, they didn’t choose at all. Any kind of style was unknown to them, and their mantra right now was probably: “My bed room is too far away, this corner looks cosy too.” They grossed Sherlock out. He didn’t understand how you could possibly abuse your intellect in such a mortifying way.

„Observing once again?“ a voice ripped him out of his thoughts. With a short blink he focused his mind completely on Irene again. Due to her look it was the first time she had addressed him. John had sometimes needed ten attempts until Sherlock reacted to something. “I was thinking.”

“Does this evening appear terribly tasteless to you, too?” His eyebrows wandered up. „That you care for something like that…“ She lifted her hands slowly and defensive, her eyes were sparkling lively.  “I was never tasteless. Just misbehaving.”

While a small grin crinkled up in her lips Sherlock honestly thought about how it would feel like. Whether her lips were really as demanding as he imagined them to be. Or whether she would surprise him. How she would react if he would try it. He didn’t even know _why_ he was imagining this.

It didn’t really make sense. Confused about his own behavior he sighed before he caught himself again and traced back his last reasonable thought. “You were about to say what was made you to address…”


	4. Implying

He hesitated and looked at Irene skeptically. She had stepped towards him and was now standing really close. And when Sherlock said close he meant so close that he could even find out the label of her shampoo if he wanted to.  
“What…I…”  
“So it still works” she murmured while she looked at him through intense black eyelashes. Sherlock took a step back and accepted the short, disappointed twitch in his right cheek, which Irene surely hadn’t missed.  
“Why did you address me?”  
“Was I wrong in doing so?”  
„No, I was…“ Oh, it was so hard to admit, but Sherlock had neither the nerves nor the intellectual capacities – at least not right now, although he would’ve never said it out loud – to talk himself out of this.  
“I was glad that you have done it.” Something flashed in her eyes, but she wasn’t getting closer. Not yet.

„Why do you ask then?“  
„You know my work. I observe and draw my conclusions.”  
“What conclusions do you draw with me?”  
“You want…something. I don’t know what it is."  
„And that frustrates you.“  
“Obviously” Sherlock admitted a little remorseful. Irene smiled devilishly.  
“Did I take the younger Holmes by surprise again?”  
“Name me an incident before this one.”  
„So I am right this time. Fascinating. And I think you know exactly what I talk about.“ While she talked both of her hands danced across his body, tenderly they stroked his chest. Sherlock was completely torn. He wanted to hold her hands still to concentrate, but meanwhile he wasn’t ready to lose the feeling that her touch caused.

“You’d be grieved, Miss Adler. I remember nothing at all.”

Disappointment flickered in her glance shortly before she showed a small smile again. For a moment she didn’t speak, which gave Sherlock enough time to look at her from tip to toe. Her hair wasn’t curled up as complicated as in their former meetings, just a big clip and some smaller clips held the mahogany waves out of her delicately cut face. Her eyes shone as blue as they always did, here outside he noticed it even more than inside. The black eyelid line emphasized the colour of her eyes even more. To his surprise he did not wear blood red lipstick, just a soft shimmer lay on her lips. Before he could really lose himself in her look – because that was what he did right now, even if he would never admit it – Irene continued talking.

“Oh, please. You and I. Alone. In your flat. You took my pulse.“  
„Right, I remember gloomily.“  
„Sherlock“ she criticized him tenderly while she played with a button of his shirt.  
“You can’t really want to make me believe that you don’t remember. It had to do with feelings.” She placed a hand on the back of his neck and pulled him down a bit so he could feel her warm breath on his cheek. The trembling of his hands was so strong that he had to clench them to fists. Just as his nails dug in the palms of his hands and he felt the light, dull pain he came to rest again.

“Love” Irene breathed almost inaudible in his ear before she restrained a bit. He was visibly relieved when she let go of him – because now he could think in normal ways again – and sighed while he looked at her doubting.

„Didn’t we agree at one of our last meetings that love is a dangerous disadvantage that shouldn’t be underestimated?”  
“No. You agreed with yourself. I was in no position in which I could say my opinion openly.”  
„That’s why you’ll surely understand that I can’t really comprehend your note. Love” he spit it out like the name of a highly disgusting vermin, “is not really my area.” 

“Oh, Sherlock” Irene said with a quiet smirk in her lowered voice. “What, if not love, would get a man to travel to Pakistan and save a woman from being executed?” 

“Do you want to imply that I was in love with you once?”

“No” she murmured and approached her face to his even more.

“I want to imply that you still are.”


	5. Still not hungry

It was like all air had vanished from his lungs.

A furious, perfectly performed kick in the stomach couldn’t have left him more breathless.

Suddenly he felt like he did back then in Miss Adler’s house in Belgravia, when he had been speechless, too. One of the few times in his entire life in which he didn’t know what to say. _I like detective stories. And detectives. Brainy is the new sexy._

His mouth was bone-dry and his throat all tied up as he cleared his throat. He didn’t even try to form a proper sentence; it would have ended in a disaster. The spark in her eyes intensified as he met her gaze. One of the corners of her mouth rose to form a smile.

“Sherlock Holmes – speechless. What a headline. I’m feeling flattered.”

“You can.”

“Oh really?”

They had had this talk once before. Back then he had told her that she didn’t need to feel flattered. Tonight it was different. Tonight everything was different.

“So I’m right?”

“Do I really look like I would know this?” His tone was so cutting and sharp that Irene raised her swung eyebrows in disbelief before she looked around with a low sigh. Almost all men had looked at her at least one time in the meantime. Right now she was watched by four men. One married, two in a relationship, but one of them faced its near end. She cheated on him with her colleague. Cliché, but it was true. Her heels and the belt that held her trousers up at her protruding hips told him more than enough.

Irene’s gaze was strangely unfocused and wandered around the whole time. Sherlock’s gaze, which rested on her, was her taboo zone – it seemed that she would avoid him on purpose.

“What’s going on with you?”

“Oh, I’m hungry. I would love to have dinner.” One of his eyebrows rose involuntarily while his view was focused on her moving lips all the time.

“I think there are some men – and women – who would love to have dinner with you. Your chances were probably never better.”

“But this is boring. What would you say if I would confess something very special to you? Hypothetically speaking, of course. Don’t read too much in it.”

Now Sherlock’s forehead was frowned. “I’m listening.”

“I would like to have dinner with _you_. With you. With nobody else.”

Again a kick in the stomach, again all air to breathe was pressed out of his body.

“How could I…read too much in that?” he finally asked with a muffled and husky voice before he cleared his throat quietly to get rid of the strange feeling in his belly.

“You tend to do this, Mr. Holmes. Has no one told you this before?”

“Usually people say other things to me. They’re rather direct.” He tried to say it as dry and matter-of-fact as he could, but he didn’t manage too well. “I remember the ex-drug-addicted housewife from Marylebone Road…”

“Are you trying to get off topic?” Well, he really did. He hated to talk about things he knew nothing about. Which luckily wasn’t the case too often.

“Back then you have made it very clear that you think that I know nothing about this topic. Why should you start the topic if you would have to assume that my attitude hasn’t changed?”

Irene shrugged her shoulders. “Curiosity.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“No you’re not.”

Sherlock swallowed. She was good, clever and very attentive. And although she knew that she coud probably force him into a talk, at least in the condition Sherlock was in right now, she didn’t dig deeper, but moved her left arm in a big and dissolute move. His gaze followed the elegant move not as reluctant as he would have expected it.

“What do you say to this now? One last night before the world ends. A last opportunity to do everything you’ve missed so far.” He snorted contemptuously, now his attentive gaze was again on her face.

“Nothing more than an excuse to make a fool of yourself and to get drunk unrestrained. Not that anybody who’s here would need an excuse for that.”

Irene ignored his objection; instead she kept on looking at him. “One last night, Sherlock. The very last.” Her gaze was intense and perfectly clear to understand.

“I don’t believe in such humbug, Miss Adler.”

“Oh, I know that. Believe me; I know that only too well.” Before she flung her arms around her body Sherlock had turned to go. "You’re freezing. Let’s go inside again.”

“You want to stay?” She sounded really puzzled.

“Will you stay?”

Again she shrugged her shoulders. “I think so, yes.”

His decision was made.

“Come” Sherlock said after a short silence. “It’s really cold.”

He didn’t see Irene’s facial expression because she was walking in front of him, but her features mirrored a mixture of joyous delight and true excitement as she pulled the heavy door open.

 

The music in the big room was still far too loud. The oxygen, if it had ever existed in there, seemed to have vanished long ago, the air was stuffy and hot. The people moved like a single heaving mass. Strangely they remembered Sherlock of the sea, surging back and forth, continuously. He had never liked the sea, he thought while he turned around. Irene next to him started to rock in the beat of the music, with half-closed lids she only seemed to feel the vibrating shocks of the basses in her body. How she stood there – the contrast between innocence and devilishness was only intensified by the almost surreal, dim light that dipped her face and her body in light and shadow – she seemed to Sherlock more inhumane than ever. He didn’t notice that she looked at him while he observed her, he was far too fascinated. Only when she reached out for his lower arm he startled.

The expression in her eyes was clear, and even Sherlock could see the dark shadows of desire inside of the blue.

„I would really like to have dinner with you.“

„I’m still not hungry, Miss Adler.“

„What do you have to lose?“

„Probably nothing worth the thought. But you would still be the dominant of us.“

„Because I’m good in it. In contrast to you, I’d guess.“

„That’s not quite true“ he replied. Yes, maybe she had hurt his pride a little. And Sherlock was no man to just let this happen. She could ensnare him and challenge him, this left at least a little of own decision-making, but as soon as she questioned his abilities…

„I could kiss you, here and now. And you would like it.“

„You wouldn‘t do this.“

 

„Oh, wouldn’t I?“


	6. Easy

He completely disliked this sparkle in her eyes when he bent a little down towards her while his left hand – as if it would be absolutely natural – rested on her back and trailed upwards until she lay between Irene’s shoulder blades.

“Come on” she murmured. They were so close that he could feel her breath on his slightly opened lips. Carefully he stepped even closer so Irene had to raise her head a bit to look him in the eye.

“You really think that I can’t do it.”

“If you could you would have already done it. It’s just a kiss, Sherlock. A single, small kiss.”

Oh, it would be more, he knew it. They both knew. It would be more than just a kiss. In the end it was Irene Adler who stood in front of him. It was her soft scent of perfume that he had noticed on several women on the streets in the past. Each time he had sped up his pace or had turned around, but never had the silhouette been slim, rather petite but however strong. He had been a bit more disappointed each time. Exactly this scent, the unmistakable mixture of peach, raspberry and a hint of vanilla veiled his senses right now.

“Do you want to provoke me?” “I’m surprised it doesn’t work.”

„Maybe you’re not as good as you thought.“

„Maybe you’re better than I thought.“ Still the challenging fire shone from her widened eyes, and Sherlock really just wanted to surprise her. It was no big thing. It wasn’t like he had never touched her before. He touched her in this very moment. Her lips were just another part of her body. But still...As if he was trying to trick himself he came even closer until their tips of the nose would have almost touched if Irene wouldn’t have tilted her head a bit to the right. It gave her a special expression of astonishment.

Now he noticed every single detail of her face: The a little smudged eyelid line at her left outer corner of the eye, the reddened cheeks – Sherlock didn’t know whether it was because of the cold outside or because of the sudden and crushing heat inside – and the tiny birth mark right below her hairline. He had never noticed it before. It would be so easy to bridge these last centimetres. Again he approached her, and he felt her harshly exhaled breath as well as he hears it, even over all this music.

Now it were just some millimetres that separated their lips from each other, not more than a bare thought. Irene’s lid fluttered but they didn’t close yet. She waited. He knew that a tiny movement of her would be enough to kiss him, but he also knew that she wouldn’t do it, no matter how much he could feel her boiling emotions. She still trembled under his touch, and there was no chance it was still because of the cold. He had probably never felt so much strain how he felt now.

A last time he took a deep breath, noticed the symphony of good and bad smells that surrounded him: Irene’s perfume, used air, the cheap deodorant of someone else who danced next to them and occasionally bumped into Sherlock...

And suddenly it was easy. It was easy to take this last wall down which separated him and her from each other. It was almost too easy to intensify the grip on her back so she was almost forced to come even closer, until her toes almost stepped on his shoes. Sherlock didn’t move, had just tenderly closed her lips with his. He felt the silky texture below his sensitive skin, could even recognize the soft taste of her lips balm while her hands automatically wandered around his neck. He didn’t really know what he was doing.

It was fascinating that he didn’t step away from her the second she reacted. After all he had proven to her that she had been wrong. The only reason to kiss her.

The only reason that he could admit to himself.

But he didn’t do it. He wanted it, wanted to feel how she moved just as little as he.

When they parted after an undefinable long time Irene smiled.

“I think I was wrong.”

“Obviously.”

“And you’re sure that you’re not hungry?” she asked him with a muffled voice. He could understand her very well, as if he would just block the deafening music out when she spoke. Before he could just open his mouth to give her an answer she continued.

“You don’t have to connect it with emotions. Just see it as a scientific work.”

„Scientific? How could anything that involves you ever be scientific?“

„You once told me that love is chemistry.“

“But I don’t actually love...” “Yea, I know. We’re not agreeing on this“ she just replied.

„Just think. You and I. Alone. An experience you never made before. Or am I wrong again?“

He looked down and avoided to look at her. “Two errors on one evening would be a little too much for you. But as I said before: I’m really not hungry.”


	7. Giving In

Irene sighed lowly, frustration mirrored in the delicate details of her face.

“Sherlock, you as a scientist should be more than interested in this experiment. A last, really big thing before all this ends. Technically it’s the end of the world. And this time there’s no Mrs Hudson to disturb us. Do you really want to let this opportunity pass?” Sherlock’s glance flickered, for a moment he could only see indistinct before he got himself again. His thoughts however got lost in his mind palace somehow, in a corridor he rarely dared to enter. It was almost impossible to get out again.

_His flat._

_Living room._

_Irene’s hand on his wrist._

_They had been close, on more than just a physical level. He had understood her, not only because he could have felt her pulse. It had been the first time that he could see her real emotions that had mirrored dark and indecisive in the shining blue of her eyes. He had wanted to be close to her, in every possible way, just to get to know more about this facial expression, to fathom why her glance looked as questioning and trembling as his did when he looked into the mirror while he thought about her._

_He wanted to feel how her body softened below his fingertips and stretched out toward him...strangely he remembered the scientific aspect far too late to reason his sped up heartbeat. In the moment he had been so puzzled and speechless that he could just look at her._

_Dilated pupils, elevated pulse. He knew what it meant and it gave him enough security to at least try it. She didn’t play games; she didn’t try to beat him._

_She had been beaten with a weapon which none of them had thought about but which destroyed the plans of both of them._

_Maybe it was just fair to take advantage of this incident._ _A reparation. Sherlock had known that he had only lied to himself._ _He wanted Irene, he was sure about this. That she offered herself to him, a playful smile on her lips…It confused him as much as his own feelings. He had never had a great attraction towards other people._ _Well, no. That wasn’t true._ _He was thought o fas appealing, yes, as long as the other one didn’t know him. There were exceptions like John, Molly or Mrs. Hudson, who still dealt with him, but none of them had ever tried...It was like Sherlock had just spared this topic completely._ _Which he had done till now._

_But now?_ _It was still Irene, still this hauntingly beautiful women that was similar to him in many frightening ways. Who if not she would be willing for this at all?_

“To be honest I didn’t think that I would see you again after Pakistan. I barely had a chance to thank you for my rescue.” Her words in combination with the intonation of her voice and the risen eyebrow made these words sound so ambiguous that even Sherlock understood it. She really seemed to want to keep the offer she had made him so many times. Did he actually have to lose something worth thinking about?

Irene seemed to see something in his gaze, a crack in the wall, a tiny doubt on his own principles, and a hint of insecurity. Curiosity. It was definitely enough to make her continue talking. She gripped his shirt and pulled him towards her. The lights of the room mirrored in her eyes. Sherlock could feel tht her hands trembled a little, even though they were so hardly clenched that her knuckles were white. Her voice however was as velvety and soft as always.

“Let’s have dinner, Mr. Holmes.”

Maybe Sherlock was overtired. Maybe he was terribly bored because the majority of people was already too drunk to voice something that made sense – if they would be able to do this in a sober state. Which obviously excluded most of them. Maybe he just searched for an excuse to justify his behaviour. Maybe he even felt something like joy because he finally got to see Irene again. Maybe it was a mixture of everything. In the end it made no difference. He nodded shortly and followed her through the swaying and dancing crowd.


	8. The right woman?

They didn’t touch while they made their way in between the dancing people. From time to time Irene looked behind to ensure herself whether Sherlock still followed her. Her gaze shone, but no matter how hard Sherlock tried, he couldn’t exactly put a finger on what was lurking in the blue, only waiting to pull him so far down he couldn’t get up again. Still it was very full, more and more people streamed into the hall, which didn’t actually make it easier not to lose each other in all this crushing and pushing – not even speaking about dancing. It would have been far easier if he would have just taken her hand. But it seemed absurd to Sherlock. It would give this moment a hint of something ordinary. And it wasn’t. It mustn’t.

If Sherlock made this step, it had to be a special step. Maybe it was like this because he tried to trick himself, because a part of him was still naïve enough to believe that he could just think of this as an experiment and because of this every body contact would be completely superfluous. Another part of Sherlock knew it better: The flashes that had shot through his body when he had kissed her, this sparkle in her eyes when she approached him, and his heartbeat, elevated because of this…He was involved. He really had feelings for this woman, of whatever nature they might be. And he couldn’t deny that the helplessness he felt right now scared him. A lot. He was completely dependent on her will and her mildness.

But she was a dominatrix. What kind of mildness and amicability could he expect from her? It didn’t seem very logical to him: Sherlock was a man who hated to be patronized or to feel inferior. A combination of both in relation with the most dangerous and most brilliant woman he had ever met…It would offer some surprises, Sherlock was sure.

Asking differently: With whom – except with her – would Sherlock be ready to spend this last night, not talking about the experiment?

Still they were pushing themselves through the crowd, but strangely they seemed to get forward quite good. Maybe Irene’s body was extremely slim or smooth, but she really managed to keep a certain appearance of elegance while she searched her way. When a man grabbed her elbow to pull her closer and to involve her into a dance he had his arm twisted on his back before he could count to three. “I already have someone” Irene hissed into his ear. “Not interested.”

The man drew back immediately and looked up to Sherlock, who was about two heads taller and looked menacing despite his slim stature, partly because he had laid his one hand on Irene’s shoulder in a protecting way and had risen the other as if to attack, while cold burning fire shone in his eyes. When Irene turned around slowly and looked at him with sparkling eyes he hastily took his hand from her shoulder. “What was that?” “Nothing” he replied as calm as possible. Inside of him, however, all machines were running with the highest speed.

Why did he have the need to protect her if she could obviously do this by herself? Why did he want to pull her close to show all men – and some women – that this woman wasn’t available tonight? “Well, then…I suggest we act like this never happened” she said with a tiny smile in her voice. His lips twitched to form a short smile while she had turned around again and now finally opened the door to get outside.

No. Irene was the absolutely right woman for this task.


	9. Masks

They decided quite fast to go to Irene’s hotel room. Well, Irene decided it with rising her hand and calling a cab for them. Sherlock stood close behind her and watched the curves of the slim body that showed underneath her coat. With a challenging glance over her shoulder she entered the car and told the driver the address while Sherlock entered on the other side. Immediately a thousand impressions came to his mind.

 _The cab driver didn’t have a girlfriend anymore because he didn’t talk about his problems. He had started smoking again a few weeks ago and barely did anything else since then. He had a cat with long, light hair, probably a mixed-blood; he wouldn’t be able to afford a full-blooded cat with the income of a cab driver. He had been very sick as a child, a rare case of measles, which one could see because of the scars on throat and neck. The scars on his face had been treated with a special balm, but the less prominent spots had been left out or forgotten. He had an older brother who was far more successful than him and who would marry soon_ , as Sherlock noticed with a short glance on the opened glove box. _He didn’t want to go there, but was sure that it would have consequences, especially from the side of his mother. His father wouldn’t care; he had always liked the girlfriend of his son more than his own son._ The driver couldn’t be much older than thirty, assumed Sherlock, the rather full hair and the straight position with which he sat told him this, but his face looked old, worn and tired, the eyes had no sparkle at all. _Former addiction to drugs. Probably cocaine. He breathes through his mouth, the nostrils have become sensitive because of the regular snorting._ Sherlock knew this expression in the eyes – from himself. A time that was long gone, but not long enough to make Sherlock forget everything he had felt back then. He wished that he could forget it, just erase it from his mind. It was impossible.

„Sherlock“ a female voice ripped him from his thoughts. The cab had stopped. When he looked to the side the seat next to him was empty. Irene had opened the door on his side and looked at him expectantly. His gaze shortly jerked to the driver in the front; he counted the money that Irene had given him with a content expression. How long were they already standing there? How long had Irene watched him while he had lost himself in his thoughts, in awful depths that had been his life once? “Are you coming or do you want to stay?” she asked lowly and stretched her hand out towards him. He met her gaze hesitating and almost froze because everything about dominance and superiority had vanished. He forced himself not to let his hand tremble as he took her hand and got out while Irene intertwined her fingers with his. The soft leather of her black gloves was warm against Sherlock’s skin. “Here we are” she said lowly. He nodded while he swallowed. His throat was as dry as sand.

He wasn’t surprised that the hotel had very luxurious interior. The huge, bright shining chandelier hung heavily from the high, plastered ceiling. Everything looked pure, in light shades of crème, and the dark brown wooden floor, who mirrored the light in its shining surface, emphasized the impression of an expensive building. Sherlock didn’t even want to ask why Irene had so much money. Probably he wouldn’t have liked the answer.

She still held his hand while they marched through the hall, ignored the asking, but discreet gaze of the concierge and entered the elevator. They were alone. Only when the doors closed she let go of Sherlock’s fingers. “You didn’t run” she mumbled. “Do I have a reason?” „I’m not letting you go anymore.“

The feeling that ran down Sherlock’s spine when Irene took his hand again and squeezed her lightly, didn’t have anything in common with science. He was completely lost, lost in her company, while she guided him to her room and unlocked the door.

„Feel like you’re home“ she said while she walked into the room and dropped the key on a small table of dark, polished wood with a light jingle before she turned around to him with an elegant movement. Irene watched him while she took off her gloves and placed them on the table, too. The door closed behind him with a low sound. _Security lock. Not able to open it with a simple picklock. Would need much skill and experience. What did she try to protect? Was someone searching for her? She was dead. Officially. Moriarty had no reason to still follow her. Who then? Americans? No. They knew that he was stil there and protected her. And Karachi had been perfect. They would never search for her again. She was safe._

Sherlock tried not to look to overwhelmed by the classic elegance oft he room and answered her remark only with a risen eyebrow.

“No.” “Pardon?” he replied a little puzzled. “No, Sherlock. Not like this. No masks. Not tonight.“ She laid a hand on his cheek. „Not us both.“ When she pulled him down to her he resisted not half as long as he would think of as appropriate. When her lips met his he replied the kiss almost without hesitation. And when she looked at him, asking,  he nodded. With clinical exactness he put down his coat on the chair next to the slim table. All the time he had fixated a point over Irene’s head. She had too stripped off her coat and had put it on a hook. She had watched Sherlock all the time – at least from the corners of her eyes.

When they stood opposite each other the silence was almost deafening. Almost naturally they imitated the body language of the other one: The head held high, but an insecure look in the eyes, hands strained in the desperate attempt to just let them hang next to the body, back straightened, the facial expression of a wounded soldier who wanted to fight a last battle before he collapsed.


	10. May I?

Sherlock’s finger searched their way to the buttons that fixed the sleeves of his shirt close at his wrists and opened them. Without hesitating, without fear to show something she would later use against him, he rolled up his sleeves. He would take everything off, everything of costume and mask he had, until nothing was left except him. Was he scared? Yes, he was. But it didn’t matter because he trusted her; at least enough to try it.

Without looking at Irene and with a careful, slow movement he pulled first the one and then the other big patch from his skin.

“What are you doing?” Irene asked curiously while she stepped out of her high heels and pushed them aside.

“I don’t think that I will need them now. Am I wrong?” He could have told her the other part of the truth: That he didn’t want his impressions to be influences by something. He really believed that this was _their_ night, their last night. Independent from whether the world would really go down. Maybe he would never see Irene again. But now wasn’t the time to think about something like this.

After he had wrapped the rests of his addiction to nicotine in a paper tissue to make it as invisible as possible he threw it into the paper basket, Irene’s gaze still on him. She had come closer to him in the meantime and was now standing in front of him. “May I?” she asked lowly and pointed at his scarf. He had almost forgotten how small she was without her high heels. She barely reached his shoulder as she stretched out her slim hands and put them on the soft fabric which covered his neck.

Slowly she began to unwind his scarf which had protected him from the cold air outside, until it showed the unbelievably light, elegant line of his neck. Irene gently ran her tongue along his throat and enjoyed the feeling that passed through her when Sherlock tipped his head back and sighed lowly.

He wanted to reply what she did for him and stepped even closer until their bodies met almost completely. Her lids fluttered when he bowed down to her slowly and sealed her lips with his. Almost automatically Sherlock pulled her into a tight embrace and held her in his arms while a silent noise of approval fled her lips.

She wanted to be tender and soft and she really didn’t want to scare him, but it was too hard. It was just impossible to control her in the slightest when his hands were on her shoulder blades and pulled her closer and closer. No clear thought was in her head while his lips opened hesitating after she had swiped her tongue across his lower lips to ask for entrance. She heard how he sighed into the kiss. Her hands left their position at his neck and slowly wandered down, then to the front, caressed his chest, before Irene slowly, so slowly that she could almost not bear it any longer, opened one button after the other.

She pushed Sherlock back with the strength of her complete body, forced him a few steps back before he collided with a wall. Yes, maybe this wasn’t the best way to get someone like Sherlock Holmes used to physical love, but it was the only way Irene was capable of right now.

Almost impatient, but still at least a little controlled she leaned herself against him even more until their upper bodies touched in full length. Shivering she took a deep breath and opened her eyes for a short moment while black stars were dancing in front of her eyes. She couldn’t really see what happened, but she was content with what she felt. She felt how Sherlock smiled, how the corners of her lips rose and his lips parted. She resisted the temptation to gently bite his lower lip not too long. A disbelieving and surprised noise came out of his throat before Irene let her lips glide over the edges of his mouth.

“Try to stop me when you feel uncomfortable.” She didn’t receive an answer; instead Sherlock’s arms were encircling her waist tightly, rose her a bit and pressed the last rest of air out of her lungs before his hands ran along the sides of her slim body, over the soft curve of her hips to her thighs, where he slowly started to pull up the seam of her dress.

“Sherlock Holmes, you villain” Irene laughed lowly while she allowed with a shudder just too voluntarily that Sherlock led the kiss now. Never she would have dared to kiss him as passionate as he kissed her right now.


	11. Resisting

Her whole body shivered and she trembled a little, but next to Sherlock she stood safe and sound. Without interrupting the kiss only for a splinter second she pulled him back again, further into the room until she felt the edge of the sofa against her legs. Her hands now clenched in the collar of his shirt Irene let herself sink back. An uncontrolled, low moan was to be heard from her as Sherlock broke the kiss and buried his face at the curve of her neck.

Her whole body seemed to stretch out towards him while he was bent over her. Although she felt very prominently that Sherlock really wanted to concentrate, that he really _tried_ , she could still feel his physical strain. Her arms still around his neck she stood up again slowly and ignored the feeling of dizziness while she pulled him to the bed breathless. Barely there Irene turned and pushed Sherlock on the mattress before she let him pull per down.

“Please don’t pressure yourself” she whispered in his ear while Sherlock let his opened lips glide over her throat in a very tempting kind of way. While doing this he planted small kisses on her skin once in a while that made Irene shiver.

“How could I? It’s just the last night of the world.” His laugh was freed and happy when it united with Irene’s low giggle. By now they were looking at each other again, Irene’s clear eyes met Sherlock’s ice-blue, blazing gaze. And at some point she couldn’t resist anymore, she had to let her hands glide under his opened shirt, had to feel the skin under her fingertips. For a short moment Sherlock sat up so Irene now sat in his lap and could push the shirt off his shoulders before she dropped it next to the bed almost without care.

Her hair tickled his cheek as she caressed his collar bone. She could feel only too direct how he swallowed hard; she felt it under her lips which wandered up his throat with tiny, light touches and finally found his mouth again. Her hands were heavy on her shoulder blades and tried to pull her even closer. At some point one of his fingertips ran across the zipper of her dress, and Irene drew back from him long enough to meet his asking gaze.

“Please, yes, I want it” she explained breathless. Under normal circumstances Sherlock wouldn’t have difficulties in opening something as simple as a zipper, but now it demanded his complete concentration. Decades seemed to pass until Irene could feel his touch right on her skin. His hands glided lower, to her legs, where he now carefully began to pull her dress up completely. She was sure, had she given him a sign that he should stop, he would have stopped short immediately. Probably he would have just sat up with his usual, cool gaze and looked at her. Waited for an explanation. Although…No, this wasn’t completely right.

She had seen another gaze tonight, one she knew from the Baker Street, but this time it was stronger, even more hypnotic and more irresistible. The fabric glided over her body softly before Irene sat up unwilling – unwilling because it meant that she had to break away from Sherlock – and pulled the dress over her head. Her hair was lost without any hope of being saved, she knew it. But she had the hope that this was of no importance right now. A look at Sherlock’s face told her that she was right.

Her mirror picture was visible in his dilated pupils when she bowed over him again, while he now caressed her belly, only touching the skin with his fingertips as if he feared that she would draw back in the next second.

“I’m not made of glass, Sherlock” she murmured, her voice sounded strangely hoarse.

“That calms me a lot.”


	12. The last barrier

His gaze was impossible to analyse and directed right at her eyes while she bowed over him again and breathed a promising, feather-light kiss on his opened lips. Her teeth held his lower lip fixated for a short moment before she freed Sherlock and his hands were wandering to her neck.

“What do you expect?” Irene asked lowly.

„I…I’m not sure.“

„Relax“ she summoned him softly, let her fingers run through his hai and shuffled a bit downwards.

He felt unique under her lips and fingertips; again and again Irene’s touches glided over the upper part of his body, his neck, his collar  bone; she couldn’t resist, it was too unknown to be tender. She had almost forgotten how it felt…Just giving in to somebody without causing him pain. It was a _very_ pleasant thing.

While her lips wandered over the upper part of his body more and more demanding, Sherlock wrote endless sentences on her skin with his slender fingers.

“What are you doing?” she chuckled lowly in his ear after she had parted from his neck with a heavy heart.

“Is it uncomfortable for you?”

“No, I’m just asking myself all the time what it means.”

“I try to concentrate. Otherwise it might actually be possible…”

“I’m all ears, Sherlock.” Now she had become curious.

“That I actually, maybe, beg for mercy.” Irene laughed, she felt freed; at the same time she felt her cheeks glow. Sherlock had shown her a weak spot.

“Thanks” she murmured against his opened lips after they had met in a passionate kiss.

She shivered. She could feel it as she snuggled up her body against Sherlock’s. It was so hard to keep calm when the man who had condemned and saved her lay under her hands and was dependent on her mercy.

“Do I traumatise you too much?” she mumbled into a playful kiss.

“No”, he replied with a heavy breath. “No, I’m fine.“

„Good. I wouldn’t have had the heart to stop now.“ When she heard his low laughter at her ear, felt it echoing in her mind and how it seemed to fill her completely, she noticed that she felt far more than she would have believed in the beginning.

Her skillful fingers found Sherlock’s belt buckle without a moment of restrain. She couldn’t possibly wait any longer. For a split second Sherlock froze below her and she searched his gaze desperately, but when he saw the expression in her eyes he relaxed and brushed a streak at of her face. Irene smiled at him almost faint-hearted.

It was absurd that she wasted just one thought about whether she was emotionally tangled in this matter. In the end it was just a last barrier before they belonged to each other fully. He had seen her naked, she had drugged him, and right now only a few layers of fabric separated them from being one physically. The thought alone that someone would allow to be deflowered by a dominatrix…Well, Sherlock was not just someone, and although she didn’t like to admit it, right now Irene was not a common dominatrix anymore.

She was completely taken by Sherlock, waited for his touch longingly, for his lips on her neck and her shoulders and she waited fort he low noises he made when she let her fingers brush over his body, tenderly and really careful to understand everything she did. _She caressed Sherlock Holmes_. This sentence could easily be sorted as a paradox.


	13. Finally

Eventually, Irene shivered so much that she couldn’t concentrate any longer, and she had to draw back a little from Sherlock to be able to handle all the impressions. His scent made her head dizzy, and the way how his lips ran over her body, how his fingertips softly trailed along the fabric of her bra…She had to blink twice and shake her head until she could think clearer again. With a tiny smile she started to roll the skin-coloured hold-up stockings down her legs while Sherlock stripped of his trousers, shoes and socks. He kept his gaze fixed on her the whole time.

„Do you really know what you’re getting into?“ she murmured into her ear lowly after she had climbed behind him and now encircled his bare upper body with her arms, while her lips playfully caressed his neck.

“I’ve got the feeling that you’re getting cold feet” he replied with an easily audible smile.

“I’m just highly concerned.” Her breath on his neck made Sherlock shiver before he turned to Irene.

“You don’t need to be. I am…” He didn’t finish the sentence, Irene had already bent forward and sealed his lips with a tender kiss.

In a split second the passion boiled up again, and Sherlock put his hands on Irene’s hips, pulled her closer towards him, until they could feel the other’s body in detail, and moaned lowly as Irene entwined her legs around his pelvis. His mouth felt bone-dry as he caressed Irene’s back carefully and ran his hands over the fastener of her bra.

“Do I need to give you a written permission before you open that?”

He grinned up to her while he opened her bra in a fluent motion.

“I didn’t expect that.”

“I’m not the only one who needs to learn” he murmured while he gently removed the straps from her shoulders and kept Irene’s gaze in his while she let the lacey lingerie drop next to the bed.

When Sherlock’s hands ran over her exposed skin slowly and tenderly, a shiver ran down Irene’s spine.

“It should be forbidden to treat me like this.” Sherlock knew her voice good enough by now to know when she was joking and when she wasn’t, so his only reaction was a low, amused snort, combined with a cross smile.

“I would have warned you, but…” This time it was him who started the kiss, slowly, gently, but however so passionate that Irene asked herself how it was possible. She had kissed enough men and women in her life to call herself an expert, but the way Sherlock kissed her was completely new for her. It was like he really cared for her. She didn’t know whether he loved her, but this was not important right now because they respected each other enough to enjoy this moment, no matter, what the next day – if there would be one – would bring. It calmed Irene a lot that Sherlock was so close to her, although her heart beat raced. Again and again her exploring fingers glided lower on his body until she finally found the fabric of his boxer shorts and playfully ran her index fingers along the border of fabric and skin.

“You ready?” she whispered almost hesitating while she looked at him. Sherlock stole a short, loving kiss from her. “Yes.”

They got rid of their underwear faster than Irene could think, and when they lay on top of each other so close that everything which might come was only a thought away, Irene felt more naked than ever before. She could see that he tried not to analyse, but that he could now because she gave herself to him. They had both shown their vulnerability, because both of them had shown that they were able to sense feelings, at least partially.

Sherlock was still completely puzzled how his body reacted to Irene’s closeness. It wasn’t the first time that he recognized something like this, but in such an intense way…He could have let himself be distracted by that if Irene wouldn’t demand all of his attention without willingly doing so. She was surprised too about what she felt. Sex was, since she had chosen the life of a dominatrix, rather a game than a serious thing for her. Even if she never, never ever had sex with her clients, her work assuaged her in some kind of way. If she wouldn’t enjoy it she would have never chosen this job.

No, she liked this feeling of power, but even better was this moment with Sherlock, in which they finally, after so many missed opportunities, after so many longing gazes and after so promising kisses, finally had crossed the last barrier and Irene lost all control in the bat of an eye, because Sherlock wasn’t ready to just let her do whatever came to her mind.

Although he was inexperienced, he was still Sherlock Holmes, and so she wasn’t too surprised that he pulled her back down towards him after she had reared up because of the sudden lightning in front of her eyes and pressed his lips on hers while he replied the rhythm she had chosen.

Her wheeze got lost in his mouth while he fixated her lower lips with his teeth for a short moment, playful enough not to hurt her, but with enough security to make clear to her, that he planned to take an active part.

“You’re learning fast” she whispered.

“I’ve got an excellent teacher” he growled after he had answered the roll of her hips on his pelvis with a scarcely suppressed moan. Irene laughed lowly while Sherlock’s lips dedicated themselves to her neck again. One of his arms was flung around her upper body in an almost possessive way to keep her down, even though Irene knew that he would let her free if she wanted to. But she liked this direct, possessive Sherlock Holmes far too much to stop anything.


	14. No return

It would have been a lie to say that she didn’t enjoy it. The feeling of Sherlock under her body, how he moved together with her, in the rhythm of a song only they could her made her feel dizzy. The regular noises they made were suppressed in the beginning; they caught them with their lips between their teeth to avoid the complete exposure, but they soon learned that it made no difference. Sherlock’s lips were almost always on her neck, her forehead, her temples or her ear to whisper small meaningless things to her which made them both laugh so much that the bed rocked because of various reasons.

From this point on there was no return.

Sherlock’s hands were everywhere at the same time, caressed her heated back, ran over her breasts as if coincidentally and pulled her close because he wanted to feel her as intense as possible. He was barefacedly talented for an absolute beginner, because he knew only too well what he needed to do to make Irene suffer, to make her dig her nails into his back because she couldn’t bear it any more, always so strong that he felt it very clearly, but always exactly on the border between lust and pain. She didn’t know whether he was a natural or whether he could just evaluate her very well.

Because in all of the Commonwealth no one, not even Kate, would have known that Irene Adler, the infamous dominatrix, liked it slowly and gently.

After the first moments of enthusiasm – Irene didn’t know whether it were seconds, minutes or hours – and of rampant passion they both started to agree on a slower tempo without a single word. They were both unsure how long they could last, and at least Irene wanted to enjoy the moment as long as she could. She could only guess that Sherlock felt this way, too, even though this was probably the most puzzling thought he had ever had in his mind.

From this moment on both of them acted as if it wouldn’t be the first time they slept with each other – not even speaking about the fact, that one of them was a virgin. No, Sherlock seemed to know exactly, when he had to move how, so Irene could relax completely. Their bodies touched at full length, and Irene felt every single one of Sherlock’s deep breaths on her chest.

After a while she looked at him, an unspoken question in her eyes. Right now she was on top, but she guessed that it cost Sherlock a great effort to subordinate to her, even if everything they did was very loving and sensual. Without a single word Sherlock sat up and kissed Irene passionately while he turned her around and bent over her.

A dominatrix who was aroused by giving up control wouldn’t have success for long, but Irene already guessed that it was a Sherlock-Holmes-exception again. She made far too many of them lately.

 _Always avoid being in someone’s debt._ Karachi. He had risked his life to save hers. She would never be able to repay him fort hat. At least she hoped that she would never need to save his life. Again. She remembered the pool. And her role in it.

 _Never reveal something of you._ This was impossible when Sherlock Holmes was around.

 _Never let yourself guide by your feelings._ The shiver which ran across her spine when Sherlock buried his head at the crook of her neck and sighed her name lowly, the way how she turned her head to kiss his temple, and the gentleness with which she ran her fingers through his hair told her enough to understand that this rule didn’t quite work out either. In spite of this unsatisfying result she felt more freed and secure than she had for a long time.

Sherlock’s name wasn’t appropriate to be moaned, Irene realized that when she tried without really recognizing. No, eventually after “Sher…” she broke off every single time because the feeling which ran through her veins because of him being so close incapacitated her speech center, and the rest of his name drowned in an unarticulated sigh. She was starting to believe that he didn’t quite worry about this, because his attempts to mumble her name became weaker from minute to minute until he limited himself on just kissing her.

An alternative which she approved quite a lot.

His mouth was hot and passionate on hers, always demanding but never pushing. Right now she wouldn’t be able to stop herself anyway. The mixture of tenderness and unrestrained devotion was too much for her, and to watch his lips forming her name in a suffocated, silent moan made an unknown, warm feeling tremble in her body which hadn’t anything to do with physical satisfaction.

She felt that Sherlock’s movements became more and more erratic, and when she looked into his face it was also clear why: It seemed to be very hard for him to suppress his rising arousal. With a loving facial expression Irene cupped Sherlock’s face with her hands and pulled him close. “It is alright” she murmured, because she wasn’t able for anything more.  She stood on the edge of complete abandonment, and she was surprised by herself that she had the strength to form complete sentences.

Another gaze into his eyes, another kiss which left both of them breathless, and another move, perfectly harmonized, was the end for both of them. Irene didn’t hold back the scream which built up in her, and Sherlock let the guttural noise which almost sounded like a growl flee from his lips. It took her a few seconds until Irene could see something in front of her eyes except of black exploding galaxies.

Everything which filled her ears was her fast breath, Sherlock’s wheeze next to her shoulder and her racing heartbeat, which performed a fast and passionate dance.


	15. The man for the last night

Irene couldn’t remember retrospectively whether it had taken long. Probably not, regarding their excitement and the fact that this had really been Sherlock’s first sexual contact with a woman – with anybody. Just when he started to back off slowly she emerged from her pleasant, warm coma to the cold surface. It was cool, even in the heated room. Irene pulled the blanket over her a little more because she started to shiver, although it seemed as if her whole body was covered in flames.

“And where do you think you’re going?” she asked him with pulled-up eyebrows, while he rose from the bed.

“Home.”

“But John’s not there.”

„No. But I don’t want to disturb you.“

„Sherlock, believe me. I wouldn’t have let you get into my bed if you would disturb me. And now get yourself back into said bed. Please.” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and climbed back to Irene under the blanket, after he had thrown something into the bin. Irene realized that it had to be a condom. She hadn’t noticed, and to be honest she hadn’t even thought about something like this.

But Sherlock seemed to think about everything, even in situations like these. Why he had one with him however didn’t come clear to her. Well, you could probably deactivate a bomb with it if you only knew how. Regarding her previous experiences with Sherlock it seemed rather probable to her.

„Aren’t you tired?“ she asked curiously. She had had clients who fell asleep directly after they were…finished. But Sherlock was not like her clients.

“Yes, I am. But I chose to ignore that.”

“Oh Sherlock, you’re a crazy man“ she said laughing while she tenderly caressed his chest. She was fascinated by the soft texture of his skin. Well…Actually she was fascinated by everything that had to do with him.

“Stay with me tonight. And sleep a little. Though it is a crime to let a natural like you sleep.“ A hesitating smile spread on his face when she buried her face at his shoulder.

„Sherlock“ Irene sighed against the warm skin of his neck as he pulled her close to him and rested his chin on her head. The feeling of his arms closely wrapped around her body almost prevented that she could follow the thought. But she was sure that she would forget it in a few minutes if she didn’t say it now.

“What?” She couldn’t really articulate what she wanted to say, because she knew that it would never the right words. Her feelings stormed in her. It was no love, it was no hatred. It wasn’t just sex. It was something else. She had surely had better sex before when she blanked Sherlock out, but this was the thing which was so hard. The whole situation, his intelligence and the fact that he had made her laugh while they slept with each other…It had made this night an unforgettable one.

She didn’t want to say what she really thought; that she had no idea why and how this had happened, but not even in her head this sounded well. So she got back to her second thought, which seemed far more appropriate to her.

“Nobody has got the right to call you a virgin anymore.” He laughed lowly, and she felt the vibration under her head. Yes, it had been good not to say what she had wanted to say in the beginning. It would have just complicated things.

“How do you want to call me, then?”

„You? You’re my man for the last night.“ He put a hand under her chin, and she followed his wordless demand, propped herself up on an elbow and looked down on him. He came a little closer to her, let his hand slide to her cheek and looked into her eyes before he kissed her lovingly and intensely.

Maybe this was really the last night, and this was the last opportunity to say and do everything you never said and done before. Irene had the feeling that she had used her life how she liked it. After she had sunk down next to Sherlock again she hid her head at his shoulder. Almost lazy she pressed a soft kiss, an almost unnoticeable touch on his neck. Her lips formed a small smile as she felt the light shatter of his pulse.

“No reason to be this excited” the mumbled while she let her hand slide across his chest and stomach.

“Who of us is excited?” he replied playfully and caught her still deeper-sliding hand to rest his fingertips on her wrist shortly. She knew that her heart raced, she could feel and hear it.

“Good night Sherlock” she snorted, playing the outraged and mumbled lowly as he pressed an almost apologetic kiss on her forehead before he wrapped his arms around her upper body again.

“Good night. May it not be our last.”

Irene wasn’t awake long enough to think about all possible meanings of the sentence. Sherlock’s presence and the intimacy and familiarity of his touch were to calming so she fell asleep snuggled up against Sherlock.


	16. Not the last night after all

The next morning was just like every morning after, but then it was completely different.

Irene had to sit up and sort her thoughts for a few seconds before she had complete control over the situation and knew again what had happened yesterday. The thought about the last night made a free smile appear on her lips. While she ran her hands through her tangled hair she looked to the side and recognized a bit disappointed that Sherlock wasn’t lying next to her.

She would have loved to see him asleep to get to know which shadows his long eyelashes would paint on his concise but delicate cheek bones when he had his eyes closed. She wanted to listen to the calm, regular heartbeat of a sleeping person which had nothing in common with the racing gallop of the last night which had deafened her ears when he touched her.

She had almost fallen asleep again, but then Irene heard the faint noise of water. Sherlock was obviously showering. Of course. He wouldn’t have sneaked out like any Tom, Dick or Harry One Night Stand. She shouldn’t have had doubts in the beginning. With a low sigh she rose from the bed and got into her dark grey silk morning gown before she went over to her dressing table.

The look into the mirror didn’t shock her too much; with great patience she un-tangled her hair with a comb until they were tamed and smooth, used a faint –scented deodorant and removed the scarce rests of her make-up, which had collected under her eyes as dark circles. It was a miracle that Sherlock hadn’t taken to his heels.

With a pleasant shiver Irene thought back about the last night and put her hair up to a loose chignon so they didn’t always hang in her face. When she lowered her hands again she turned her head to the side and noticed a red mark on the crook of her neck, right over her left collar bone.

“Oh, you will pay for that, Sherlock Holmes” she mumbled with a silent smile in her voice. It would be unfair to take him by surprise, probably he had to sort his thoughts too, which was clearly understandable. She just hoped that she hadn’t left too many marks on him for which she would have to have a bad conscience about. Well…Maybe she would be even proud about it; the dumb pride of a woman to have left something on Sherlock Holmes. Even if it were just scratch marks on his back. Or especially then.

A short glance to the window lit up her face, and she approached it with a smile, while the sound of the shower was still audible in the background.

While Irene stood at the window and watched the falling snow flakes, which trembled through the icy morning air seemingly weightless and uncoordinated, she heard how Sherlock left the shower. A small smile ruled her lips when she felt him in the room. She felt his attendance, the everlasting presence which he had, very clearly, even before he stood close behind her. He smelled good, like Aftershave and the neutral but classy shower gel of the hotel. But mostly he smelled like Sherlock. She couldn’t say what it was that told her that no one could ever smell like him.

“We’re still alive” she said lowly, her gaze still fixed on the snow outside.

“Well, that’s what I call luck” he replied coolly. Her heartbeat stopped and then galloped forward when she felt how two naked arms wrapped around her and pulled her a bit back until she leaned against a warm body. She felt his chest at her back, the tensing muscles of his arms around her upper body and his cheek resting on her hair. It gave her a feeling of security.

“And it’s snowing” she added while she watched the lazily floating snowflakes coming down from the sky.

“It would have been a pity. An apocalypse without snow.” Sherlock made an dissatisfied noise like a snort. Laughing lowly Irene turned in his embrace and lovingly pushed his damp, curled hair out of his forehead. When she lowered her hand she ran her fingers across his face carefully, over his nose, cheeks and the sensual curve of his lips. He caught her hand with his and kissed her fingertips while their gazes were locked. For a moment they just looked at each other before Irene let her hand wander to his neck and pulled him down to her.

Tenderly her lips searched for his as they both closed their eyes at the same time, only giving in to their sense of touch. The kiss deepened while Sherlock intensified his embrace and Irene pressed herself against his body, which was heated up by the hot water of the shower. Sherlock’s hand was on her cheek carefully when they parted with sparkling eyes and racing pulse just to throw them into a far more breathless kiss only a few seconds later.

“I already thought about joining you in the shower. But this is alright, too.“

„Alright?“ he asked lowly, his voice was the perfect balance between amused sarcasm and played shock. Oh, she desired this man so much.

“Will you come back to bed if I ask you to?”

He didn’t even nod, he pulled her directly behind him, gave her a soft love tap and fell onto the sheets next to her. The towel which had been wrapped around his hips only seconds ago lay forgotten on the carpeted floor by now.

And in the next few hours nobody would make the effort to pick it up again.


End file.
